I Joined a Book Club and Accidentally Became Its Unpaid Therapist

Six months ago, I made a decision that I believed would elevate my intellectual standing in the community: I joined a local book club. I envisioned evenings filled with sparkling debate about unreliable narrators, nuanced discussions regarding magical realism, and perhaps a glass of Pinot Noir that I would sip elegantly while nodding at someone else's profound insight. Instead, I have become the emotional support animal for a group of adults who treat literature as a mild inconvenience between their personal crises.

The first meeting was a red flag I chose to ignore. We were supposed to discuss The Great Gatsby. We spent exactly four minutes on the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. We spent the remaining ninety-six minutes discussing Brenda's son's decision to drop out of college to become a competitive gamer. I nodded. I offered sympathetic murmurs. I thought, Okay, this is just a warm-up. Next month will be different. It was not different.

The Art of the Unread Book

It turns out that approximately ten percent of the group actually reads the selection. The other ninety percent—a coalition of the willing but exhausted—rely on a combination of the back cover blurb, a vague memory of the movie adaptation, and sheer audacity. I have watched a man confidently argue that Pride and Prejudice was set during the Civil War. No one corrected him. We were too busy discussing whether Karen should confront her sister-in-law about the passive-aggressive Thanksgiving invitations.

I tried to steer the conversation back to the text. I prepared discussion questions. I highlighted passages. I was, in retrospect, the kid in class who reminds the teacher about the homework. The group looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "That's great, honey," said Diane, who has never finished a book in her life but has strong opinions on everyone else's life choices. "But let's talk about something more real." More real than fiction? Apparently, yes. More real than the existential dread of a character trapped in a loveless marriage? Absolutely, because Diane's neighbor's landscaper is charging her for work he didn't do.

The Unofficial Group Therapy Session

I have now learned more about these people's medical histories, financial anxieties, and romantic failures than I know about my own extended family. I know that Steve's colonoscopy went well. I know that Maria's daughter is dating a man who "doesn't have a real job, just a podcast." I know that the host, Carol, is passively-aggressively furious that no one else brings snacks. I brought snacks once. They were gluten-free. You would have thought I had brought poison.

The book itself has become a prop. We pass it around like a talking stick that no one actually wants to hold. Last month, we were supposed to read a 600-page historical epic. I was the only one who finished it. When I tried to mention the devastating final chapter, I was interrupted by a heated debate about whether it was appropriate for Gary to text his ex-wife on his current wife's birthday. I closed my book. I poured myself a generous glass of wine. I settled in to hear about the ex-wife's new boyfriend.

I keep going. I am not sure why. Perhaps it is the sunk cost fallacy. Perhaps it is the wine. Perhaps I have simply accepted that this is not a book club. It is a support group with a literary theme. And honestly? It is cheaper than actual therapy. I just wish someone would read the book so I could finally discuss the symbolism of the green light without feeling like the weird one.